Monocled Alchemist

Syd gets his trousers back

Article published in NME, 2nd October 1982

Syd Barrett | The Madcap Tracked Down In Cambridge | THE MISTS of intrigue, rumour and legend surrounding Syd Barrett—the original singer and guitarist with Pink Floyd, who left the group, made two solo albums, then withdrew from the music scene completely — look a little clearer this week, thanks to an article appearing in the French magazine Actuel.

The authors of the piece, journalists Michka Assayas and Thomas Johnson, cap their investigation into the enigmatic madcap’s history with what they claim to be a conversation conducted with Barrett on the doorstep of the suburban house in Cambridge where he lives with his mother.

Now aged 36, it transpires that Syd, who’s since reverted to his real name of Roger Barrett, lives the existence of a recluse, emerging out of doors only to run the odd errand to the shops. Apparently he is still subject to the lingering aftermath of a mental illness, probably schizophrenia, which saw him confined to a hospital in the early ’70s.

In the course of the article, the writers speak to past associates of the once-brilliant musician, like his ex-flatmate the artist Duggie Fields, as well as to “critique legendaire” Nick Kent, an acclaimed authority on the man. Even hip-alternative psychiatrist R. D. Laing is hauled in, to offer some sympathetic comments on Barrett’s condition.

In the ten years since Syd’s “disappearance”, lurid stories have abounded as to his whereabouts and mental state. Efforts to get him recording again — by David Bowie among others — have come to nothing, and today his contact with the music business is nil.

The journalists traced him to his present home via a London estate agent with whom Barrett once had dealings, and the interviewer presents himself at the house on the pretext of returning a bundle of clothes, left by Barrett at a previous address . . .

I’ve been looking for you. I’ve been to Chelsea, they told me there were some clothes for you and that you were living with your mother.

Syd: “Thanks very much. Do you want some money? Did they pay you?”

No, no that’s okay. What are you doing now? Do you paint?

Syd: “No. I’ve just had an operation, but nothing too serious. I’m trying to go back down there, but I’ve got to wait. There’s a train strike at the moment.”

But that’s been over now for several weeks.

Syd: “Oh, good! Thanks very much . . .”

What did you do in the apartment in London. Do you play guitar?

Syd: “No . . . No, I watch TV, that’s all . .”

Don’t you want to play anymore?

Syd: “No, not really. I don’t have time to do very much. I must find myself a flat in London. But it’s difficult, I’ll have to wait . . .”

(From time to time he looks at the clothes, his jumble. He smiles.)

Syd: “I didn’t think I’d get these things back. And I knew I couldn’t write. I couldn’t have made my mind up to go and get them . . . To get the train and all that . . . But then . . . I didn’t even write to them . . . Mum said she’d get in touch with the office . . . Thanks, anyway.”

(All the while, he is trying to end the conversation. He glances repeatedly towards the garden, towards his mother.)

Do you remember Duggie?

Syd: “Uh . . . yes . . . I never saw him again. I’m not going to see anyone in London.”

All your friends say hello.

Syd: “Ah, thanks . . . that’s nice . . .”

(He speaks and reacts like all the psychiatric cases I know. Waiting seems to have become his major occupation, TV helping him to pass the time.)

Can I take a photo of you?

Syd: “Yes, sure.”

(He smiles, fidgets, fastens his collar.)

Syd: “Good, that’s enough now. It’s painful for me . . . Thank you.”

(He looks at the tree in front of the house. I don’t know what else to say.)

It’s nice, that tree.

Syd: “Yes, but not any more. They cut it, not long ago. Before that I liked it a lot.”

(From inside the house, his mother’s voice is heard.)

“Roger, come and have a cup of tea, and say hello to my friends.”

(Roger Barrett turns towards me, panicked.)

Syd: “Good . . . there you are . . . Maybe we’ll see each other again in London. Bye . . .”

Yes, until then. Bye.

The encounter is as brief as it’s sad and inconclusive. The Actuel article takes the view that Barrett’s personality was a fragile one from early childhood: ill-equipped to withstand the sudden pressures of Pink Floyd’s first flush of psychedelic success, with all the liberal indulgence in drugs which that entailed. Possibly the most apt comments come from Syd/Roger’s successor in the band, guitarist Dave Gilmour:— “Syd Barrett? Your article must be the last one on him. It’s not romantic. It’s a sad story. Now it’s over.”